


try this trick and spin it

by lanvaldear



Series: begin again [1]
Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Death, burial at sea ep2 spoilers, yeah i'm not even sure what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3954115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanvaldear/pseuds/lanvaldear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in a fine hand on yellowed paper, there are three simple words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try this trick and spin it

She's dead.

Elizabeth knows this. She hates that she does. She hates that she saw it coming, that nothing she could do would change her fate. Atlas had been playing her, and she had taken the role of a fool. Revenge had seemed like a flawless plan; she'd hopped through each and every dimension, taken care of what was due.

Except she'd died.

Except, she's alive when she opens her eyes. Before, in Rapture, the scent of blood had hung heavy in the air. The chill of the glass behind her back hadn't helped her rapidly decreasing body temperature. Elizabeth hadn't really gotten hurt before; she'd known when to run, when to duck, had avoided pain as much as necessary.

Turns out, a wrench to the head hurts a hell of a lot.

The air is cool on her face. Next to her head, a window is open, and down below, she hears the hustle and bustle of a city in the morning. She can smell salt water, fresh baked bread, even a faint sweetness that she somehow knows comes from cafés nearby. Elizabeth sits up, brushes a hand through her hair. To her right, there's a mirror. At first, she doesn't recognize herself. Her face is clean, free of blood and dirt and grime that should be there from her skirmish in Rapture. Her clothes are clean, pretty, almost modest compared to her usual wardrobe. The makeup she'd adopted to fit in is washed clean from her face.

Elizabeth is whole, Elizabeth is healthy, Elizabeth is alive. That realization steals the breath from her lungs. What this means, she's not certain. Her head still feels foggy and throbs every so often—which tells her she hadn't imagined her last confrontation with Atlas. Or maybe it's just her imagination, and this is some bizarre afterlife or between life or whatever the hell comes after your revenge, in the end, backfires and you end up dying against the cold, impersonal glass of an underwater hell.

Groaning softly, Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose. There's a knock at the door. Elizabeth stiffens, on high alert. If this is some bizarre dreamworld, afterlife, whatever, she already knows who's on the other side. And when his voice comes, her breath sticks in her throat and her eyes sting. It's infuriating, but it's a reaction she knows she isn't capable of stopping.

“Elizabeth?” She counts her breaths. One, two. Three, four. “You up yet?”

“Yes,” she croaks, her voice hoarse from disuse or emotion or who knows what. “I'm awake.”

“Got breakfast waiting. Hurry up or it'll get cold.” His footsteps recede, heavy on wood, heavy like her heart drumming an erratic beat against her ribcage. Elizabeth puts her face in her hands, counts to ten, breathes, tries to calm the hurricane of emotions whirling around inside her heart and her head.

Her legs feel like they might give out, but she stands anyway. She turns to the window, feels the breeze against her face—how she'd missed it, down beneath the ocean—and stares with wide eyes out across the city. Paris. She'd opened a tear once, here, read about it countless times. Booker had planted the idea in her head, and she'd been relentless in her insistence.

Until she realized there were things bigger than Paris, bigger than escaping her tower and becoming a new person, bigger than looking out over the Seine with a croissant in hand and freedom clutched tight within her grasp. Yet here she is, unbroken and standing tall and alive. She counts her breaths just to confirm she's alive. Her hands curl against the rough, weathered wood of her window sill. Her breath is shaky as she tears her eyes from the view and to her bedside table.

A note. Written in a fine hand on yellowed paper, there are three simple words.

Elizabeth holds the note to her chest, right over her heart, and sinks down to the floor. She almost doesn't hear her own sob over the ringing in her ears. Nor does she look at the note again, just to be certain it's not a fake and what she's really seeing is real, until her face is puffy and her vision is blurry from the tears in her eyes.

_A new start._


End file.
